


How the Phoenix Ignited a Match

by Jaiden_S



Category: Hellenistic Religion & Lore, Legend of the Phoenix
Genre: Alternate Universe Hellenistic Religion & Lore, F/M, Fairy Tale Retellings, Fairy Tale Style, Fluff, Legend of the Phoenix - Freeform, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 17:28:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3818824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaiden_S/pseuds/Jaiden_S
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Phoenix is not known for his kind and caring heart, but when he befriends a young girl, he can't help himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How the Phoenix Ignited a Match

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scribblemyname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblemyname/gifts).



> Written as part of the Once Upon a Fic challenge for Scribblemyname. I hope she/he likes it!

Few possessed the strength of character required to be the best, brightest, smartest and most beautiful creature on earth, but the Phoenix had a will of iron and an inner fortitude tougher than the grandest castle wall. Wretched jealousy merely rolled off his back like droplets of water in a light spring rain. Predators from forest and plain, mountain and valley, sea and shore alike hunted him. Men sought to capture him. Other birds burned with envy and wanted nothing to do with him, but it bothered him not a whit. He lived in isolation, and if a little solitude was the price he had to pay for being the finest bird ever born, then the fee was worth it. 

Thousands of years ago, the Sun noticed his singular beauty and deigned him uniquely worthy of eternal life and blessings from the heavenly realm. “Sing to me each morning as I rise and praise my name each evening when I depart and I will shower you with blessings and share with you my power,” promised the Sun. True to the Sun’s word, the Phoenix lived on well past the lifespan any beast or bird could hope to live, and the magic of his feathers and healing in his tears became renowned throughout the land. Whispers of his fiery death and rebirth from the ashes floated over campfires at night and between hunters in the forests. The legend of the Phoenix was born.

As the centuries rolled past, the Sun and the Phoenix developed a deep and abiding friendship. The Phoenix praised the Sun and gossiped with him of the day-to-day happenings on earth, and the Sun shone down on his face and wings with warm affection. And if the other birds patently despised him, he couldn’t be troubled to care. Long after they turned to ash and dust, he would still be warm in his cozy nest.

One particularly fine morning, the Phoenix greeted his friend with a joyful song. He breathed deeply, his colorful head thrown back, face to the sky, and sang praises to the Sun, his only friend and ever faithful companion. His voice soared on the wind, carried far and wide, up to the very heavens themselves. The Sun was pleased.

“Greetings, my friend,” the Sun called down from the sky. “May today hold joy and prosperity for you.”

“Welcome and good morning,” chirped the Phoenix in reply. His nest of flowers and herbs was snug in the top of a tall tree in the middle of a grassy plain and he’d rested well, but morning was his favorite part of the day. 

The Sun beamed down happily. “And what does the day hold for you? Exploring new lands?”

The Phoenix shrugged his feathers, unconcerned. “I have given it little thought. Maybe I will go wherever the wind carries me.” 

He felt strong, vigorous and alive here at the zenith of his lifespan. Today held unlimited possibilities. He could fly to the ends of the earth and dance with the penguins on the slippery icebergs. He could dip his wings in the warm waters of the South Seas and eat his fill of small silver fish. He could soar over the tops of mountains and dive into the valleys below. Anything his heart desired was within his grasp. He only had to choose.

But before he could make up his mind, a single voice called out to him from below. “Sir? Sir would you teach me your song?”

The Phoenix craned his neck over the edge of his nest to see a lovely young lady with skin like burnished bronze and hair that fell in ebony waves around her shoulders. “Who wishes to know it?” He peered at her down his long beak.

“I do, if you will teach it to me. I’m Tati, and I live in the village down in the valley,” she replied. “Every morning I for the past year I have come here to listen to your beautiful song. It is the highlight of my day, and I wish more than anything that I could sing it half as well as you.”

The compliment appealed to the Phoenix’s sense of pride, for he was quite a vain bird. “Very well. I will teach you, but you must give me something of value.”

The girl reached into a canvas sack hanging from her shoulder and withdrew a shiny golden apple. “This fruit is all I have, but the flesh is free of blemishes or soft spots, and it smells delicious.” She held it out as an offering.

“Ah! An apple,” exclaimed the Phoenix. “How did you know I loved them?” A thousand years ago, he’d habitually enraged a tsar in a faraway land by stealing golden apples from his orchard every night. The tsar and his sons had tried in vain for years to capture and kill him, but never managed to do so. When the game lost its challenge, the Phoenix simply left, but he still fondly remembered the taste of the delicious apples.

“I didn’t know, but I guessed that a man skilled enough to climb to the top yonder tree had a love of tree-born fruit that rivaled my own.”

“A man? I am no mere man,” sniffed the Phoenix arrogantly.

For the first time, the girl raised her gaze skyward. Her eyes were milky white and sightless. She shivered in fright. “A ghost, then? A demon? Please, sir, I mean no harm.”

“A bird,” offered the Phoenix, unwilling to give away his true identity if the girl couldn’t figure it out on her own. He’d found this place some years back, a solitary tree in a hidden meadow, far from the prying eyes of men who meant to capture him and harness his power, and he was loathe to relinquish it. 

“Sir, forgive me for not realizing. I now can hear the rustle of your feathers. I should have been more attentive.” The fear in her eyes abated and she gave him a weak smile.

The Phoenix looked her up and down. Normally, he would refuse such a request, but the girl held a certain winsome appeal and he had no other plans for the day. “There is nothing to forgive. Give me the apple and I will teach you the first part of the song, but you must tell no one where you learned it or how you came upon my nest.”

A bright smile lit up her face. “You have my word, kind sir. I will not tell a soul.”

So, the Phoenix flew down from the tree and landed in the grass next to her feet. “I’ve never seen such a lovely apple,” he said as he took it in his beak. It was sweet and juicy and tangy in a most delightful way.

“My father is a baker, and we make fruit pies in our shop. I took one from the bin in hopes you would like it.”

“I do. Very much.” The Phoenix smacked his beak and swallowed the last delicious bite. “Now, let us begin.”

~*~

Every morning from that day forward, the girl appeared as the first rays of sunlight crested the horizon and listened to the Phoenix offer his song of praise. Every morning, she held out a golden apple when his song ended and he ate it with great relish. And, every morning, he taught her to sing a bit more of the song until she could sing it nearly as flawlessly as he.

“Tell me, Tati, why is it that you want to sing my song?”

“I want to sing it as a gift for my father,” she replied. “He works so hard every day to provide for me, and I want to see him smile.”

“Have you no husband of your own?”

“No.” Tati twisted her fingers together as she spoke. “Some young men offered marriage, though probably out of pity or a desire to take over the bakery. Father advised me to reject them all out of hand. He told me wait until I found a man who made my heart leap. Maybe he is out there, somewhere.”

The Phoenix studied her with curious eyes. “When you leave here, where do you go?”

“To Father’s kitchen. I knead the dough, pat it into round balls the size of my fist and let it rise. Then I roll each one out and fill it with sweetened apples or berries and crimp the edges together with my fingers. Or I fold the laundry or churn sweet cow’s milk into butter. Saturdays, I take my fishing pole down to the river.”

“Do you not stumble on the steep pathway?” 

“Oh, no. I walked it many times before the fever took my sight. It’s a path I know well, much like the one I take each day to find you.” She smiled brightly at him, and the Phoenix felt something unexpected stir in his heart. Compassion.

~*~

The pathway back to Tati’s farming village wound down a gently sloping hillside to a fertile plain, robust with fields of ripening grain and orchards of trees heavy-laden with fruit. She knew it well from years of walking it, and anticipated each dip and curve of the dirt path. By the time she reached the village, the town had come alive. A farmer and his son called to her in greeting as they took to the fields to tend to their beans. A well-dressed tailor in a fitted jacket brushed past her on his way to open his shop. The smell of freshly baking bread lingered on the crisp morning breeze, and she followed the scent to her father’s bakery, where he had just pulled the first day’s loaves from the oven.

“Tati,” he said smiling and reaching out to hug her in greeting. He pulled her close and tucked her head under his chin. “Did you enjoy your walk?”

“I did, Father,” she replied with a smile. He smelled of yeast and flour and she inhaled deeply against his chest.

He kissed the top of her head, then turned back to his cooling bread. “While you were out, a man came by to see me and inquired about you. Alger, the merchant’s son.”

Tati pulled a face. “He gossips about his customers when he thinks nobody can hear him, and his hands are softer than mine.”

Her father chuckled and nodded his head. “We are of the same mind.”

Tati giggled at first, then frowned. “Father? What will happen if I never find a husband?”

“Then you will be blessed with my company for the rest of your life,” her father teased. “You’re a fine baker and can take care of yourself. If you do not find a partner, so be it. Better to be happily single than unhappily married.”

~*~

The next day, just after Tati left the Phoenix to return to her village and begin her day’s chores, the sun called down from the sky above. “The girl has curried your favor,” he said.

“Indeed,” admitted the Phoenix. He blinked his onyx eyes up to the bright sky. “Beneath her beautiful smile, she is lonely. I want to help her find a companion, one who would love her as wholly and deeply as she deserves, but I do not know where to look.”

The sun pondered that question for some time. At last he replied, “Fly north, over the snowy mountains to hill country, until you reach the shore of a deep blue lake nestled in a valley. Perch on the branch of the oldest oak you can find and wait. A suitable young man will appear in due time.”

The Phoenix bowed his head in deep gratitude, unfurled his bright wings and took to the sky, soaring high above the treetops. As he flew, the landscape below him turned from green to brown to white and the air grew crisp and chill. Snow dusted the treetops and blanketed the ground below. Villages dotted the hillsides, the thatched roofs of the houses and bright colors of the doorways contrasting against the pale hillside. On the far side of the mountains, he at last saw the lake, still and shimmering in the morning light. He perched on a high branch of an old oak tree and waited.

~*~

In a small town nestled on a hillside, on a wooden bench near the town square, a young man called Bourne finished the last bite of his homemade sandwich and took a sip of the cool water in his jug. Townspeople scurried to and fro, eager to take care of chores and business during the warmth of midday before the afternoon chill set in. The stablemaster called out in greeting and raised his hand, to which Bourne responded, “and a good day to you, sir!” But the stablemaster’s daughter, a girl just younger than Bourne, turned her head away, unable to look him in the eye.

A small group of giggling girls emerged from the mercantile a few doors away, each carrying a bag full of silk ribbons for their hair. Smiling, Bourne waved to them. “Good afternoon, ladies.” 

The youngest of them flung a glare his way, then said in a loud whisper, “I would never let him court me. A wild badger has a face more appealing than his.” 

“Or a rabid raccoon,” offered another girl, tossing her long blonde curls over her shoulder before dissolving into peals of laughter. 

Bourne’s hand fell limply to his side and he dropped his eyes to his lap. The bear that mauled him in the woods four summers ago may have spared his life, but she took away any chance he had of finding a wife. No eligible girl in town could stand the sight of him. He choked down the lump of disappointment that stuck in his throat and raised his head. No matter. Today was a good enough day. The sun was shining, and he would make the best of it. 

~*~

The first man the Phoenix saw that day stumbled along the narrow pathway, nose bloodied and knuckles bruised fresh from a fight. His eyes blinked rapidly against the harsh glare. A drunkard. The Phoenix dismissed him out of hand. 

The second man to walk the pathway brought with him a book and settled into a shady spot underneath a nearby elm. His face was fair and his eyes clear and bright, but his hands were soft and fleshy, and he glanced up with nervous apprehension each time a twig snapped nearby. A laggard, likely hiding in the woods to avoid work. The Phoenix sniffed and turned his head. That one would not do. Not at all.

And so came and went a steady string of men, young and old, fair and flawed, none of whom were good enough for sweet Tati.

The sun began to set behind the shadow of the great mountain, and the Phoenix lifted his voice in song, a farewell gift until the two dear friends would be reunited the next morning.

“Please, sir, teach me your song,” called a voice underneath the tree just as the song ended.

The Phoenix peered over the edge and down into the deep forest. “Who wishes to know it?”

“Bourne, son of Hagan, from yonder village,” he said, stepping out of the shadows. 

The Phoenix studied him carefully. Three long, jagged scars ran the length of the right side of his face, narrowly missing his eye, but mangling his nose and the side of his mouth. The poor lad looked gruesome. But, he was a strong young man, tall and straight, with long fingers calloused from hard work and clear blue eyes that sparkled with intelligence. 

“Bourne, son of Hagan, why do you wish to learn my song?”

Bourne lifted his chin and smiled. “Because it is beautiful and I do not have much beauty in my life.” 

It was a simple, straightforward answer that greatly pleased the Phoenix. “Very well. I will teach you, but you must give me something of value.”

Bourne reached into his bag and withdrew a small wooden bird, handcrafted from the heart of a white ash tree. “I carved this myself only last week, and the patrons in my shop all declared it my finest work to date.”

The Phoenix flapped his wings and settled on a lower branch, craning his neck down to inspect the bird. It was a lovely, delicate carving of a dove in flight that only could have been produced by a master craftsman. “I accept your offering. Keep it with you for now, but when I ask for it, you must give it to me.”

“As you wish,” replied Bourne, carefully placing the carved bird back in his satchel.

All through the night, the Phoenix sang until Bourne knew the song by heart, and once the Sun rose over the rugged mountains, their voices greeted it with a sweet harmony.

The Sun was delighted, and it beamed down warm and bright on their upturned faces. 

“I must return to the village,” said Bourne. “Morning is here and father will need my help in the woodwork shop.”

The Phoenix cocked his head. “Have you no wife and family?”

Bourne dropped his eyes. “No, sir. I am scarred and ruined, and my offers have all been rejected, but I hold out hope that one day I will meet a girl who can love me in spite of my flaws.”

Immediately, the Phoenix knew his mind. He plucked a feather from his wing and dropped it into Bourne’s hands. “Return to your shop. Show your father the feather and tell him you will be going with me on a journey over the mountain. Pack a bag and return here within the hour.”

“Where are we going?” Bourne blinked up at the Phoenix, confused.

“To meet a friend. Bring the wooden bird with you. It will be your gift of greeting.”

Bourne walked quickly to the village, dashing over the cobbled streets, past rows of white plaster storefronts with brightly painted doors and shutters to his family’s woodworking shop. His father had just propped open the emerald green door and flung open the shutters to let in the cool morning air.

“Bourne, where have you been? Your mother and I were worried.” His father, Hagan, stood in the doorway in his dusty apron, hands on his hips, and eyed his son with concern.

“Father, I have met a Phoenix, and he has asked me to go with him on a journey,” Bourne breathlessly replied. He held up the vibrant red feather, tipped in blue and gold, and gave it to his father. “I am to pack and meet him in the forest within the hour.”

Hagan marveled at the feather in his hands. Few people ever laid eyes on a Phoenix, and fewer still were given the gift of a feather, which brought good luck to the owner. It was an auspicious occasion. “Then, do not tarry. Gather your things and go. We will mind the store without you until your return.”

As soon as Bourne arrived back in the woods, the Phoenix spread his wings. “I will fly ahead of you and direct your path, for the road over the mountain can be treacherous.” 

The Phoenix spoke the truth. Melting ice and snow left the mountain trails slippery, and in some spots, fallen trees blocked the way entirely, but the Phoenix called out to Bourne and identified alternate routes to avoid the worst of the dangers. 

Slowly, tediously, Bourne picked his way over the rocky summit, struggling at times with weariness and fatigue, but never stopping. By then end of the day, the grassy plain that the Phoenix called home was in sight. “We are nearly there,” he called from the sky above. “Only a few more steps, my friend.”

Bourne trudged the last mile, forcing his aching feet to move, and finally collapsed under the expansive tree under which the Phoenix perched. A single golden apple sat on a square of canvas under the tree, and Bourne eyed it longingly. The bread and cheese in his pack had long been eaten.

“Take it and eat,” said the Phoenix. “Another one will be brought tomorrow.”

Gratefully, Bourne inclined his head in thanks and bit into the apple, smiling as the sweet juices filled his mouth. “I have not tasted anything so delicious in a very long time.” As he ate, he scanned the darkening field. “Am I to sleep out here tonight?”

The Phoenix plucked a feather from his wing and dropped it into Bourne’s lap. “Stick the end of my feather into the ground. Rest under the shade it provides.”

Bourne rose and did as he was told. The feather grew upward and outward, expanding into a colorful canopy just large enough to shield a man from the elements. “Ah,” gasped Bourne, eyes wide with wonder. “I could not ask for anything more.”

“Go and sleep, but when the sun begins to rise, so must you rise and join me in song.”

And so Bourne took his pack and crawled wearily to lie beneath the feathered tent. He was asleep as soon as his head lay back on the soft grass.

~*~

Very early in the morning, as the last stars began to twinkle and fade and the first hints of daylight shimmered along the horizon, Bourne rubbed his eyes and sat up under his canopy of colorful feathers. In the tree above him, the Phoenix shook his wings and preened, readying himself for his morning song. 

“Rise and join me, Bourne,” called the Phoenix. “You know the song by heart, and two voices lifted in harmony are better than one.”

Bourne cheerfully assented, and moments before the sun began its trek over the eastern hills, they began to sing.

As Tati approached from the south, she heard the first strains of the Phoenix’s song, and quickened her pace. She’d missed him the previous morning, and took extra care to arrive early today, but it seemed he’d started without her. The dusty pathway rose up to meet the grassy field at the top of plain, and the song became more distinct. There were two voices; one, the flawless clear tenor of the bird she knew so well and the other a deep, rich baritone of someone unfamiliar. She stopped along the pathway and blinked back unexpected tears that sprang from her eyes. Had she been replaced? She ran as fast as she could toward the sound of the singing.

Just as their song ended, Bourne heard footsteps rushing up behind them. “Who is it that approaches?” 

The Phoenix leaned down from his perch and whispered, “Retrieve the wooden bird from your pack. I require it of you now.”

As Bourne scurried to comply, Tati ran up to the tree, breathless and panting. “Sir! The song! Forgive me for arriving late.”

“There is nothing to forgive, my friend,” replied the Phoenix. “The song is a gift, not a requirement.”

“But you replaced me,” cried Tati. “I heard the voice of another as I approached.”

“No, not replaced. Never replaced. Who on this earth could ever replace you?” The Phoenix cocked his head toward Bourne. “But there is another who wished to learn my song, and I felt compelled to teach him.”

Bourne stepped around from behind the tree and froze, his heart in his throat. She was stunning, this girl, with shining ebony hair and a fair face and bronzed skin that shone in the early morning light. As soon as she saw him, though, she would recoil just like all the others. Bourne swallowed and awaited the inevitable reaction. “I am Bourne, son of Hagan, from hill country to the north,” he said and bowed his head to her.

Tati turned her sightless eyes toward the sound of his voice. “Well met, Bourne. I am Tati from the south village. The bird has been teaching me his song.” She smiled and it was a revelation, lighting her from within and striking Bourne temporarily speechless. 

_She cannot see._ Bourne hated himself for the flare of joy that sparked inside of him. It was wrong to derive happiness from another’s misfortune, but he could not help himself. Hope anchored inside of him for the first time in many years. 

The Phoenix fluttered down to a low-hanging branch just above their heads and craned his neck to watch them. “Bourne is a fine lad and a master craftsman,” he prompted, inclining his head toward Tati.

“Oh, oh right,” Bourne stammered as he fumbled with his carved bird. “I brought a gift, if you will accept it.” Carefully, he reached for her hand and placed the figurine in her open palm.

Tati cradled it gently, the fingers of her left hand mapping the curves and ridges of the smooth wood. “It’s a bird,” she exclaimed, her smile growing brighter. “I can feel his wings, delicate and detailed. His little pointed beak, his arched back. He’s lovely.”

Bourne flushed with pride. “Thank you,” he said. “I have more. I can show you if you’d like.”

Tati reached out with her free hand to touch his arm. “I would like that very much.”

The Phoenix’s heart swelled with happiness, and tears of joy welled up in his eyes, dripping down onto the couple who stood beneath him. 

Tati felt a teardrop hit the top of her head, and turned her face toward the sky. A pinprick of light tore through the darkness and slowly her world of midnight became one of light and color. “I can see,” she breathed, hardly daring to believe it.

Bourne, too, looked up when he felt a teardrop streak down his cheek. A series of sharp pains shot through him, and he covered his face with his hands. Beneath his fingers, his skin burned and shifted and knit itself back together. “What is happening to me?”

Warm hands covered his own, and he peered out from between his fingers to see a pair of warm brown eyes staring back at him. “Your eyes,” he stated, lowering his hands to twine with her fingers.

“Yes! I can see,” Tati exclaimed. She smiled and examined the man standing in front of her. He was devastatingly handsome, with a straight nose and a strong jawline and a shock of blond hair that fell across his forehead. And the large hands that held hers were calloused and rough from good, hard work. And his blue eyes were kind and lovely. Her heart leapt in her chest.

“Would you come with me back to my village? I want to share the good news with my family,” asked Tati. “And I would very much like for you to meet my father. The pies and tarts he makes are almost as delicate as your little bird.”

Bourne could scarcely believe his ears. “Yes!” he cried, then cleared his throat sheepishly, a bit embarrassed at his sudden outburst. “Yes, absolutely.” At that point, he remembered the Phoenix and lifted his head upward. “Unless you would like for me to stay, sir.”

The Phoenix snuffled back his remaining tears and shook his feathered head. “No. Take your pack and go with Tati to the village, but remember to tell no one about me.”

Nodding, Bourne yanked his satchel onto his shoulder and reached for Tati’s hand. It felt warm and smooth in his palm and he curled their fingers together. “I cannot thank you enough, kind sir.”

“Nor can I,” said Tati, with a smile nearly as bright as the sun itself. “Tomorrow, we will bring as many golden apples as we can carry!”

The Phoenix watched them dash off down the dusty trail that led to the valley and sighed happily to himself. 

“You must leave, you know,” chided the Sun. “For they cannot keep such a glorious secret to themselves, and soon your private nest will be overrun with men.”

“I do know, yes,” the Phoenix admitted. “But what will become of them? Will they be happy?”

“You already know that as well, for the first blush of love is unmistakable.” The Sun shimmered and glowed as it continued to rise across the deep blue sky. “But did you know the golden sands of the seashore are lovely this time of the year? The cliff face to the south would be an excellent site for a nest.”

“I have not felt the ocean spray on my wings in some time,” confessed the Phoenix. “I think I would like that.”

And so the Phoenix took flight, wind under his wings and warm sunshine on his back, content.


End file.
